


Another slash

by Twice_before_Friday



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Feelings Realization, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20980970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: At the pool, John realizes he has feelings for Sherlock.





	Another slash

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fan fiction. Please be kind!  
I own nothing and mistakes are my own.

For just a moment – a fraction of a second, really – he thought that the explosive vest had detonated. That, following that shared look - of understanding and agreement and farewell - Sherlock had pulled the trigger and ended the great game, for once and for all.

John had been in close proximity to an exploding IED once while he was in Afghanistan. Close enough that the concussion of the blast threw him several meters back to land painfully against the Humvee, leaving a dull throbbing in all of the parts of his body that weren't actively hurting and bleeding, wreaking havoc with his hearing and sense of balance while he was rushing to tend to the wounded and recover the bodies of those who were past saving.

So he knew better than most just what an explosion like that would feel like. The air being sucked out of your lungs; the blazing heat that registers well before the pain has a chance to; the feeling of shock as you're picked up and tossed by some unseen force, of being no longer in control of your own body. And he truly thought that he was in the process of becoming splattered little bits of flesh and blood and bone fragments that would be impossible to separate from the bits of Sherlock and Moriarty that would undoubtedly also be splayed across the room and left floating in the pool.

He realized eventually (although it took longer than he would ever admit to) that the bomb had not, actually, gone off, and that it was just the impact of the realization that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes that had stolen all of his breath and left him reeling, feeling like the world was collapsing around him.

Honestly, if he hadn't already been down on his haunches with his back propped up against the changing stall, he thought he likely would've ended up on the floor anyways. One small thing to be thankful for in a, quite frankly, ridiculous situation. Stolen government secrets, midnight meetings in an empty pool, consulting criminal versus consulting detective, a suicide vest, well hidden snipers…

For a brief, hysteria-induced moment, he had a vision of himself fainting from the shock, Sherlock raising an eyebrow and muttering a disdainful "really, John?" before turning back to the task at hand. John had to stifle the urge to giggle at the thought.

He wondered if Sherlock would be able to deduce his newly realized feelings (of course he would), and how he would react. Sherlock had been exceptionally clear that first night at Angelo's that relationships were not his area, and John just hoped that he wouldn't ask him to leave 221B. Healthy or not, John had somehow managed to rebuild his entire life around Sherlock, and John really wasn't sure what he would do if he was no longer welcome in Sherlock's life.

Obviously he would miss the casework, and chasing the insipid and uninspired (Sherlock's oft-repeated description) criminal class through alleys and over rooftops at all hours of the night, the adrenaline rushes and the danger, but it was more than that.

So much more.

It was quiet breakfasts in the sunny sitting room, lounging together at the desk, elbows occasionally bumping, aware that Sherlock was only eating that second piece of toast with honey because he knew it made John happy; the companionable silence only broken by occasional comments about the stupidity of the Yard as Sherlock perused a case file from Lestrade, or John’s muttered half-sentences and grunts as he fumbled his way through the crossword in the paper.

It was the long walks through the park, side by side, that Sherlock suggested whenever he observed that John was feeling tense and needed to get out of the flat to clear his head before he got too deep in his thoughts and lost himself in memories of the war and the men he couldn't save.

It was quiet evenings on the sofa, eating takeaway and watching crap telly, Sherlock deriding the plot of every show that John put on (with the surprising exception of Doctor Who, which Sherlock watched without comment and had, on more than one occasion, praised the writing).

It was the violin at 2:00 in the morning. It was the half-hearted insults to his intelligence in one breath, and praise for being smarter than the rest of humanity in the next. It was the genuine smile that Sherlock almost never showed to anyone, but that John had received countless times over the last few months.

It was everything that made Sherlock Sherlock. His brilliant mind, his huge heart (even if he usually kept it so well hidden), the insecurities he kept masked with his overly confident and self-assured bravado. It was his swooshing Belstaff with the collar turned up, and those gorgeous cheekbones, Cupid-bow lips and his lithe frame and perfectly plush arse (and considering this is the first time that John Watson has ever admired another man’s body like this, he feels surprisingly okay with the whole thing, although he’s sure there will be some sort of sexual-identity crisis once the adrenaline wears off).

But all of those thoughts are interrupted by the Bee Gees, of all things, and really? Really?? _You’re a criminal mastermind,_ John thinks, _and that’s what you set as your ringtone_? And once again he’s too surprised to actually do anything besides sit and stare as Sherlock encourages Moriarty to take the call, recklessly waving the gun around once more – and they would be having a long chat about gun safety when this was all over, because that is certainly not the proper way to handle a weapon. Christ, he even scratched his head with it earlier – and before he even knows it’s happening, Moriarty is walking away again. He really is quite changeable, apparently.

And then it’s over. At least, for now. John has no doubt in his mind that they will be crossing paths with Moriarty again. He knows Sherlock well enough to know that this is a puzzle he won’t be able to let go of, and by the looks of it, Moriarty has no intention of leaving Sherlock alone either.

But that will be tomorrow’s battle.

Right now, there’s a conversation he needs to have with his best friend/flatmate/colleague, and maybe, just maybe, he could add another slash to that soon.


End file.
